Wandering Thought # 23

Poems, I discovered, are not written by us at the moment we pen them, when their ink from our fingers seeps. Poems are like babies growing in the womb, or as seeds in the earth—they grow in darkness and over a long time, always submerged in their primordial element, feeding on our subconscious and interior world. Then, one day, they knock on our door and break through the soil bursting into full light; and we are surprised and overjoyed. But poems are written in us long before we write them into light. Cherish the process; embrace the darkness; and grow as all things grow—inside out.

6 thoughts on “Wandering Thought # 23

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